The First Person I Killed
by robinwitch1
Summary: Maelen Moon-singer thinks back on the very first life that she ended with her own hands, at the age of 14.


The first person I killed

The first person that I killed was a bandit. Or a scout. I never did find out for sure. I was 14 years old at the time, and I killed him with a knife. Or, to be more precise, I wounded him with a knife and he fell to his death.

He died on one of the steep, rocky ridges that surrounded my home valley, Silverhoof Vale. I was one of the Silverhoof, but not one of them, really. They had taken me in when I was three years old, after my parents were murdered. I am a Breton, while they are Redguards. I don't know why the Khajiit merchant who rescued me took me to that place in particular, but it was a good choice. They raised me well, and I served them the best I could. When it came time for me to leave, at 16, the shamanesses wanted me to stay. I could have spent my life there, with the wild horses and the wide clear sky, the blue streams and the high slopes where the harpies built their nests. Perhaps I would have been happier there. But my feet were already set on a darker path, and I had to leave.

It was a summer day, and I was up on the slopes, high above the valley, within sight of the harpies and their nests. I wasn't in danger. Long ago, the Silverhoof and the harpies had worked out an unspoken pact, a symbiosis that benefited both sides. They hunted the predators who shared the mountain slopes with them, wildcats and bears, reducing the threat to our horses. We, for our part, left them in peace. We prevented anyone from crossing our territory to bother them, and when a horse or other large animal died, we left the carcass high on the slope for them to consume. They knew that if they tried to take one of our horses, let alone one of our people, we'd burn every one of their nests we could reach. Harpies aren't stupid. They lived their lives, and we lived ours, with a respectful distance between us, and both of us valued the modest but definite benefits we enjoyed from the presence of the other.

I was up on the slopes that day "walking the line," as we called it, looking for signs of any trouble or disturbance on the border of our territory, and also discreetly reminding the harpies of our presence. Reminding them how easily we could get at their eggs and chicks if they yielded to temptation. It didn't hurt to refresh their memories. From time to time, they'd fly through our valley, too. It was all part of the routine, each side reassuring itself that the other took it seriously.

I'd made this trip many times before, and the harpies took little notice of my presence. The only real danger was the treacherous ground, but after many years, I had that all but memorized. That's what saved me when I saw the small, black-clad figure on the slope a little above me. He'd obviously not bothered the harpies, since they let him pass without attacking, but he was definitely hostile. Hostile enough to send an arrow in my direction the instant he spotted me. I flung myself on the ground, and slid over the edge of the cliff, trying to pretend he'd hit me. He very nearly had. I knew there was a rock ledge just below that I could land on safely, and another twenty feet below that, if I were desperate. For the time being, I crouched and waited, counting on curiosity to kill the cat, so to speak.

He didn't disappoint. Like all archers, he had difficulty leaving well enough alone. He had to come and see if he had hit me. I knew that if he yielded to that temptation, he'd have to work his way down the slope to the edge that I had "fallen" off, and that he wouldn't be able to do it without sounds and small stones announcing his presence.

He came just as I expected. Foolishly, he went to the very edge of the cliff, and looked over. I stabbed him in the leg, he bent reflexively, and I pulled him off balance, stabbed him again in the neck, and let his momentum carry him past me, over the edge again. He tried to grab at me, but I slapped his hands away, and let him fall. When I looked again, he was sprawled on the lower ledge, unmoving.

I knew there was no safe way down to that lower ledge. But I could get to a rocky outcrop that was only three yards or so from its edge. I had no intention of risking myself to rescue him, of course, but I was curious. I didn't have someone try to kill me every day.

His face was toward me, but he didn't move. My knife was still in his neck, but driven far deeper than I remembered thrusting it. It occurred to me that he had probably struck the knife against a rock on the way down, and damaged his spinal cord. I was annoyed. It was a good knife, and getting it back would be a chore. Still, if I came back with a grappling hook and a rope after the harpies had reduced his body to a skeleton, I had a good chance of getting his bow at least, and a bow is more valuable than a knife.

He blinked. He was still alive. He must have known he would soon be dead, though. His lips moved, but no words came out. The expression on his face wasn't angry or frightened. It was puzzled. He knit his brows and frowned slightly, trying to figure out how he came to be on this sunny shelf of rock exchanging glances with the person who had just killed him. His expression shifted to annoyance, as if he were thinking how infuriating it was to be bested by some wild-looking girl who had pulled a simple trick on him when he was being careless. I must have been a sight after sliding down a couple of rocky banks myself; we didn't exactly dress formally to scramble over rocks.

After a minute or two, he closed his eyes. He didn't open them again.

I felt his passing as a small cold shudder, a new sensation to me at the time, one that left me uneasy and depressed. Now, of course, it is all too familiar, and brings with it no special emotional burden.

I watched for a few more minutes, squatting, and then stood up and turned to work my way down a safer part of the slope. A shadow passed over me: a watching harpy. It wouldn't wait long. The harpies knew that if it had been one of ours, I would have stayed by the body until others had come searching for us. He'd be stripped to the bones before I reached the camp. I didn't look back.

Two weeks later, I returned. Nothing was left but dry bones and a few shreds of his leather armor. My knife was missing; I suppose that it had fallen loose and been taken by one of the harpies as one more shiny object to adorn its nest. I pulled the skeleton over and got his bow and a pouch with a few gold pieces, which I gave to one of the shamanesses. There was nothing left to indicate who he had been, who he had served, or what he had been doing there.

Bringing the entire skeleton back was impractical, so I took only the skull with me when I left. Our people gave it a very simple service commending his spirit to the Herd Mother and buried it in an unmarked grave. I was glad they did. He'd tried to kill me, but I would never know why now, and better to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps the Dark Brotherhood was hunting him; who can tell?

Years later, when I came into my heritage of necromancy and the Dark Arts, I felt a presence once or twice that might have been him. It was always very shadowy, a mixture of querulous regret and a sort of phantom gratitude. So perhaps he realized his mistake before the end and was pleased at having been buried properly when I could have left his remains to the harpies and the sun. But he has not visited me for many years now, and so I hope he has found his peace on the Far Shores.


End file.
